


The Breaking Point

by vividder



Series: Beneath Suspicion [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Angst, Death, Destruction, Family Drama, Gen, Magic, Magic-Users, Sherrinford Prison, mental manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividder/pseuds/vividder
Summary: Dresden fulfills his contract, but unexpected consequences occur.





	1. Mycroft's POV

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the next fic! I hope you enjoy it as much as the first two. 
> 
> For your convenience, the bulk of the notes will be at the end of the second chapter.

Mycroft surveyed the room.  He knew where it was on the facility maps, but not what it had become.  Previously, it had been a storage room, not far from the main security office where Eurus was, but now it seemed quite different.  There were no windows, but Moriarty grinned at them from the screens someone had placed on each wall.  Discreet drains lined each wall, and the floor was unmarked concrete except for the single large white tile in the center.

Mirrors covered one wall. Mycroft suspected that they were one-way. 

These hadn’t been in the original plans, and Mycroft was disturbed at how easily the modifications had been made without him knowing.  There was this nagging thought in the back of his mind about perhaps also having been manipulated - but he’d been taught how to avoid and evade that, if need be.  Eurus had no such training, she could only use her will to destroy, not to create.  Mycroft would know if he was in any danger.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had filled in the holes in his mind with the talk therapy he’d been forced to attend as a child, and with the drugs.  It helped that the therapist had advised their parents to go along with the Redbeard story - Sherlock hadn’t suspected a thing until Eurus turned up as, of all people, John’s therapist.

But that wasn’t the only disturbing thing about this scenario.  There was a darkness in Sherlock’s eyes that Mycroft had seldom seen before.  His brother had always been deeply introspective, but this was new.  It was not lost, or reflective, but resolute.

“A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered,” he said, but his voice betrayed no emotion.  “I’m remembering the governor.”  Sherlock placed the gun underneath his chin.  Mycroft noticed that he had already taken the safety off, if he pulled the trigger there would be no going back.

John looked away, exhaling sharply.

Eurus sat there quietly as Sherlock counted down, slowly.

Mycroft tried to look around without betraying his distraction.  Where was Dresden?  This is exactly the kind of thing that Eurus would do.  She wanted to destroy Sherlock, had come up with the discredit-and-suicide plan with Moriarty in five minutes, and it had almost worked.

So why not just do it after he lived?  Break him to the point where there was no going back?

Suddenly, there was a slamming sound from behind the mirrored wall and the screens went to static.  Sherlock stopped counting, still holding the gun to his head.  John looked alarmed.

“Who are you?” Eurus exclaimed, voice quiet through the wall.  Evidently the microphones had broken too.

“Someone who was HOPING ON HAVING A DRAMATIC ENTRANCE!” Dresden half-shouted back.  “Damn unlocked doors.”

John’s face didn’t seem to know which emotion it should be showing.  Sherlock looked at the mirrors as if they had insulted his mother.  The gun hung loosely from one hand, forgotten in the new chaos.

“How?” Eurus asked, still sounding shocked.  “How are you here?”

“I’m here because you broke a law you didn’t know existed and corrupted yourself.”  Dresden sounded quite apologetic.  “I’m sorry.”

There was a moment of silence, and suddenly the mirrors shattered with an explosive boom.  Shards of glass flew into the room, and Mycroft shielded his face.  He felt fragments embed themselves into his forearms.  What a pain; they would be to have removed.  Tedious.

When he looked out again, the picture window in the security office and the table were shattered.  Everything had been destroyed.  Dresden slowly stood up from where he had been thrown.  Eurus stood over him, sweat beading on her skin.

“I can influence you.  You can’t hope to beat me,” she seethed.

“Spoiler alert: You’re not special,” Dresden said.  “Fozare!” He gestured towards her with his staff and an invisible force slammed her into the opposite wall.  As she started to get up again, he shouted, “Infriga!” and shot a bolt of ice from the end.  She stumbled backwards, but it had clearly been a warning shot.  A chance to surrender.

She dove out of the way behind a collapsed pile of electronics as Dresden fired his gun.

Sherlock raised his own weapon, but Mycroft grabbed his arm.  “Do not interfere,” he said sharply.

“But Eurus!” Sherlock hissed, wrenching his arm free.  He pointed it at Dresden.

“No!” Mycroft snapped, and Sherlock faltered.  Mycroft had never used that tone of voice with anyone.  He never planned to.  His entire job rested on him remaining cool and collected.  But this was more important than any job.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sherlock growled, turning on him.  “That’s our sister!”

Mycroft reached up and slapped his brother.  The sharp sound of skin hitting skin was quickly stolen by the bitter north Atlantic winds.  “Her mind has long been destroyed because of what she’s done to you!”  Mycroft roared.  Sherlock couldn’t understand - he could never understand.  

Sherlock reached up with both hands and shoved Mycroft - and one hand was still holding the gun.  Mycroft stumbled back.

John wedged himself between them.  Debris flew through the room as Dresden continued to fight with Eurus, concentrated spells and unrestrained entropic force and gunshots providing a soundtrack to the familial drama just feet away.  

“Sherlock, put the gun down,” he demanded.  

Sherlock only put the safety on and pointed it at Mycroft.  “What the hell have you done?” he demanded, tears in his eyes.

But Mycroft never got the chance to answer, as one of Eurus’s shouts became clear.  “Victor Trevor!”

Sherlock’s face went pale and he dropped the gun as his hands went to his head.  He fell back and slid down the wall, clearly in excruciating pain.  John looked torn for a moment about whether or not to attend to Mycroft obviously knowing something important or his best friend in pain, but did the latter, crouching next to Sherlock and trying to figure out what happened.

“What is going on?” he demanded of Mycroft as Dresden shot a bolt of ice through Eurus’s leg.  “What happened to Sherlock?”

Mycroft picked the gun off of the floor as Eurus continued to rave and Dresden apologized very quietly.

Then two sounds occurred at once.  A gunshot and an angry growl, the words of which resonated through Mycroft’s bones, sounding as loud as an air raid siren and yet as quiet as a whisper, as they sought their target: “Never forget.”

He shuddered involuntarily.

Sherlock went still, clearly unconscious and overwhelmed by the magic.  Mycroft fought the urge to go to his brother and hold him, as if he were a child.  He kept his composure - well, what of it he had left, being covered in glass and plaster and shivering from the cold ocean air - as he looked to Dresden.  Dresden wore his duster over his suit and had several small cuts and bruises on his face and scalp, but otherwise seemed no worse for wear.  His eyes looked sad, however, and he holstered his weapon.  

Mycroft avoided looking at the body or the blood staining Dresden’s clothing.  He reminded himself that Eurus posed a threat to herself as well as Sherlock and was far beyond the point of no return.  He’d done her a favor by ordering her killed.  An acceptable loss.  He’d done the same to so many others over the years, threats to the state and his family, but he had never watched.  He’d never been mere feet away as the kill happened.   And he’d never permanently killed one of his family members before.  He felt something deep and dark settle in his blood.

Mycroft nodded at Dresden.  “And my brother?”

And before he could blink, Mycroft found the gun wrested out of his grip by John Watson, who held it against Dresden.  Dresden took out his own weapon and kicked it across the floor before putting his hands up.  His staff clattered to the ground and rolled away.  “I’m not here to kill him,” he said quietly.  

“John, put the gun down,” Mycroft said.  “Killing Mr. Dresden will not end well for either of us.  And right now, he’s the only person who can help Sherlock.”

And for an amazing moment, John obeyed.  “What happened to him?”

Dresden shook his head.  “I need to see first.  If you could stand behind me, that would be great.”

John did as he was asked, skeptically.  “Why?”

“Because I get stage fright.”

Mycroft watched as Dresden stood over Sherlock, closed his eyes for a long second, then opened them.  The remaining lights went out with popping noises and small clouds of smoke.  Then Dresden turned around, and his face was pale.  He stumbled slightly, and touched one hand to his temple.  “Holy shit.”

“You didn’t even-” John protested, but Mycroft cut him off.

“Will he recover?”

Dresden looked like he was at a loss for words.  “I don’t know.  Maybe.  But I don’t think this is the kind of thing you can just walk off.”

“Fix this,” Mycroft commanded, his voice quiet but barely concealing his anger.  

Dresden was silent for a moment, thinking. Emotions crossed his face as he processed everything.  “This is all your fault.  You’re aware of that?”

“It couldn’t be avoided.”

“Like hell it couldn’t be avoided,” Dresden scoffed.  “You just had to be clever.  To have a master plan.  You could have had her killed the second she started breaking the laws of magic.  You knew she had this kind of potential.  She’s your sister?  Fuck that, she killed someone with compulsion.  And now look at what you’ve done to your brother.  I have to help you until Mab says I’m done.  But it doesn’t mean I’ll be happy about it.  And you can bet it’s going to bite your ass later.”

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth, but found that he had nothing to say.

  
  



	2. John's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the previous chapter from John's perspective

_ “A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered.  I’m remembering the governor.” _

 

John looked away, exhaling sharply.  He could see, quite clearly, the events unfolding in front of him, but his mind refused to accept this reality.  

Sherlock Holmes, with a gun in his hand.  It wasn’t fake.  There would be no smoke and mirrors.  This time, there blood would be real.  

And yet, John found nothing he could say or do to.  Eurus had gone silent.  John couldn’t find his voice to interrupt the countdown.

Only seconds...

Only seconds until his best friend’s blood would stain the floor and he wasn’t able to move or say a thing.

Suddenly, Eurus turned around on the screen, her expression one of shock.  “Who are you?” she exclaimed in quiet surprise.  Her voice was oddly quiet through the wall.  The microphones must have turned off.

John let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as Sherlock’s countdown hitched, then stopped.

But the microphones had been working mere seconds ago.  And now the screens were out too.

“Someone who was HOPING ON HAVING A DRAMATIC ENTRANCE!” an unknown male voice answered from the other room.  “Damn unlocked doors.”

John stared blankly at the mirrored wall, completely unsure of what was going on.  Sherlock lowered the gun away from his head (thank God) in equal shock.  This was a surprise to both of them.  But not Mycroft.  His lips were pursed in quiet concentration.

“How?  How are you here?” Eurus asked again.

“I’m here because you broke a law you didn’t know existed and corrupted yourself,” the man’s voice answered.  “I’m sorry,” he added after a moment.

Then the mirrored wall exploded inward as if someone had detonated an explosive in the next room.  John’s military training kicked in almost immediately and he dropped to the ground, covering his face, as glass shards flew through the air and landed on his clothes and in his hair.  When he looked up, the security office had been destroyed.  The mirrored wall and picture window were mostly gone.  Most of the furniture had not survived the blast intact, either. 

But perhaps most significantly, Eurus was unharmed and walking towards a man with dark hair and a leather coat standing slowly from his heap on the floor.  John blinked his eyes open and stood up from where he’d been blown.

“I can influence you.  You can’t hope to beat me,” Eurus was saying, but her breathing was heavy sweat had beaded on her forehead. The man looked largely uninjured (though John wondered how that could be if he had been so close to the blast - but on second thought, there was also no explosive residue anywhere, a fact he only realized the significance of later.).

“Spoiler alert: You’re not special,” the man said, sweeping a long wooden staff in front of him as he shouted, “Forzare!”

Eurus slammed into the opposite wall as if she had been caught by a massive gust of wind.  She recovered quickly, and the man shot a bolt of ice from his staff.

John began to wonder if Sherlock actually had committed suicide and he’d completely lost it, because there was no way this was actually possible.

Eurus dodged the bolt and the man switched his staff to his other hand and pulled out a gun, firing it into the ruins of a bank of computers.

Mycroft’s shout tore John’s attention away from the fight.  “No!”

Behind him, Sherlock had been trying to aim his own gun at the mysterious man, and Mycroft seemed determined to stop him. 

Sherlock turned on his brother.  “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.  Then his voice rose.  “That’s our sister!” 

Mycroft slapped Sherlock and the harsh sound of skin on skin was barely able to punctuate the noise of the battle raging behind them and the winds blowing in from the open hole. “Her mind has long been destroyed because of what she’s done to you!” 

Mycroft sounded almost...desperate.  John had only heard that tone in his voice a few times in the past.  And yet, he was suddenly aware of how little control he had over the situation as the man wore Eurus down, almost effortlessly.

Then Sherlock shoved Mycroft while holding the gun, and John got between them.  Eurus’s goal was to destroy them and she’d already almost succeeded once.  Besides, depending on who the man was...well, he might need that bullet later.

“Sherlock, put the gun down,” John demanded.  Sherlock’s complete disregard of gun safety had put him and others in danger before.  Best he not be holding the gun at all if he was going to have a go with Mycroft.

Before anyone could do anything, Eurus shouted something. A name.  “Victor Trevor!”

With that, a sudden change came over Sherlock.  A pained look crossed his face as he stumbled backwards, hitting the wall and sliding down it.  Sherlock landed on the floor in a heap, whimpering slightly, in clear and obvious pain.  But from what?

John glanced at Mycroft, at the chaos occurring in the other room.  He was completely unfazed by what had occurred.  Eurus was losing the fight.  To him, this might all be a matter of logistics, something to just...plan around.  His cold indifference to Sherlock was almost sickening.

Sherlock needed his attention the most.  John knelt at his side, trying to see if he’d been hit by anything in the mess.  The wind was freezing them through the shattered window and blowing debris everywhere.  But he couldn’t see any obvious injury, even though Sherlock was clutching his temples as if he’d had the worst migraine in the world.

“What’s going on?” John shouted at Mycroft above the howling wind.  “What happened to Sherlock?”   
Mycroft couldn’t hear him (or had decided to ignore John’s shout) as he bent down and picked up the gun, the same way one might pick up a hypodermic needle found on the ground in a back alley.  

Simultaneously, the man in the leather coat fired his weapon.

Eurus went still.

So did Sherlock, only he had passed out.  Probably from the pain.

Mycroft didn’t pay any attention to his brother as the man holstered his weapon and turned to him.  The stranger had a rugged look about him, his face was slightly weathered from various injuries, and he was wearing a suit underneath his leather coat.  The leather suited him much better than the designer fabric.

Blood had sprayed his suit and his coat.

“And my brother?” Mycroft asked coolly.

At that, John let his body take over.  He crossed the room in two large strides and had no issue wresting the weapon away from Mycroft.  He pointed it at the man, who was walking towards them too casually for a murderer.

This man, this  _ murderer _ , would not take Sherlock too.  This would end here.  He couldn’t hurt Sherlock.  John would die before he would let that happen.  

The man stopped and let his staff fall away from his body before taking his gun out of its holster and kicking it across the floor.  “I’m not here to kill him,” he said quietly.  John realized he had an American accent.

“John, put the gun down,” Mycroft said quietly, and something in his voice made John hesitate.  “Killing Mr. Dresden will not end well for any of us.  And right now, he’s the only person who can help Sherlock.”

John lowered the gun slightly.  “What happened to him?”

The man, Mr. Dresden, shook his head slightly.  “I need to see first.  If you could stand behind me, that’d be great.”

“Why?”

“Because I get stage fright,” he said sarcastically.

John did as he was asked.  This situation was just too weird.  The man seemed to look at Sherlock for a moment.  The few functioning lights burned out.  Then he turned around.  He looked sick and slightly stunned.  Mr. Dresden raised one hand to his head and grimaced.  “Holy shit.”

John was sick of being confused.  “You didn’t even-” 

Mycroft cut him off.  “Will he recover?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  But I don’t think this is the kind of thing you can just walk off.”

“Fix this,” Mycroft demanded quietly.

Mr. Dresden seemed to think for a moment.  He looked...angry and disgusted, but his eyes were unimaginably sad.  He wouldn’t meet their eyes.  

“Like hell it couldn’t be avoided,” he scoffed.  “You just had to be clever.  To have a master plan.  You could have had her killed the second she started breaking the laws of magic.  You knew she had this kind of potential.  She’s your sister?  Fuck that, she killed someone with compulsion.  And now look at what you’ve done to your brother.  I have to help you until Mab says I’m done.  But it doesn’t mean I’ll be happy about it.  And you can bet it’s going to bite your ass later.”

Mycroft seemed surprised by the harshness of the answer.  

John was shocked by its content.  Laws of magic?  Killing someone with compulsion?  And who or what was a Mab?

He had the strangest feeling that all of these threads could be linked back to a question which had bothered John since the beginning of the fantastic battle:  Who was Mr. Dresden?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing the previous part, I started wondering what John thought of all this. So here's a chapter from his point of view. I'm going to try to stick to Mycroft for this series, but hey, when the muse beckons...
> 
> I'm trying to have a new chapter written and ready to upload by the time I get 10 kudos on the previous story.  
> I don't even have part 4 started on my PC. I truly had no idea that the first chapter would get such a good response.
> 
> Well, I'm at another festival, so here's another part.
> 
> Suggestions for stories you'd like me to write and ideas for this series are always welcome.
> 
> Thanks so much for your kudos and comments. You truly do make my day.


End file.
